


the most beautiful great city

by Aishuu



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Allegiant Spoilers, Epilogue, Gen, Politics, Post Series, Ten Years Later, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aishuu/pseuds/Aishuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the walls come tumbling down, it's not just about people being set free.  It's about how others are able to come in, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the most beautiful great city

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Thanks to Sophia Prester for being awesome as usual. Scribblemyname, I very much enjoyed working on this for you - great, thoughtful prompts got me thinking!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Eventually, I think Chicago will be the most beautiful great city left in the world.  
> \- Frank Lloyd Wright

I get up each day and for just a second, I forget that she's not here anymore. Then the remnants of sleep slip from my brain and I remember that she's been gone for a long, long time.

The remembering has become both easier and harder. Easier, because the sharp jags of grief no longer overwhelm me. Harder, because as time passes, the sharpness of her dulls in my mind, and the little details that I love about her are more difficult to recall. 

Christina assures me that it's natural, but I can't help feeling guilty. It doesn't help that Christina is compelled by her Candor upbringing to point out that guilt is my natural state.

This morning, my routine is disrupted by the violent sound of the alarm clock. The insistent, incessant buzzing rings through my skull, and I almost forget to think of her in confusion as I try to understand why I would set the alarm for such an early hour. I struggle to untangle myself from the sheets in an urgent attempt to hit the off button. It takes me several seconds and I'm glad no one is around to see me make a klutz of myself.

My reflexes have dulled since the Chicago experiment ended. Such inattention could have gotten me killed while living in the Dauntless compound. Nowadays, I have the luxury of normal, human befuddlement as I recall the previous day's plans to travel to O'Hare to meet the Outsider delegation from Washington Arlington.

Then I remember that I've woken up without thinking about her first, and I feel guilty and sad all over again.

It would be easy to let myself sink into the grief and let that become my life, but I force myself to get up and moving. I slide from underneath the dark cotton blanket and put my feet on the floor. Once I've taken that first step, the next one comes more easily.

The point has to be that I keep waking up, keep remembering, and keep going. She would approve of nothing less.

* * *

From my apartment window, the sky looks cold and blustery, but it could just be a trick of the early morning light. The weather in autumn is always unpredictable in the City, and I turn on the news to figure out if I need to pull out warmer formal wear or if I can skate by using the outfit I had planned on.

The radio station is one of the many new-old things that have come back since the opening of our borders, and one of the few that I enjoy without reservation. I spent many hours in the control rooms of Dauntless watching the cameras, but someone deliberately setting out to be listened to by someone else is a pleasant novelty. 

It doesn't leave me feeling like a voyeur. Instead, I feel connection to the voices of people I have never met in person. The anchors, Christine and Leo, talk about nothing important, but their warm, rich voices provide me company as I pull myself together for the day. 

Getting dressed is always a chore because I have to choose out what colors to wear. Fashion has become a big industry in the City, with shops springing up all over to sell clothing. Some of them, like the popular Faction Free, promote a violent mix of manufactured colors and strange cuts that hurt the eyes. Others, like Chicago Style, cater to those who want to maintain the definition that color and style had previously provided. Clothing is a political statement, and I have to be more careful than most in what I choose to wear.

Gray is Abnegation, the color of selfless service and government, and today I will need the extra power of the subconscious suggestion the color brings. Last night I had selected the silvery gray suit my mother had given me for my birthday as a gift, setting it off with a crisp, black shirt that has thin, almost imperceptible, stripes of color tracing through it at half-inch intervals. My socks match the shirt exactly.

After showering, I towel dry my hair, which is brutally short since I shaved it two days ago. I have one mirror in my room, the one that Johanna had made me get the day I decided to run for office. It shows me a somber man wearing a fashionable, Outsider-influenced suit. The cut of the collar is low enough that the tattoos along my neck show, which has become a taboo among some circles. I could wear the high-necked, Candor style shirt I own, but today is not a day to hide things.

I step out of my building pleased to find that the weather is still mild enough that I don't need to wear a jacket. I cannot remember who had the bright idea to invite Outsiders in for a diplomatic meeting, but I have spent much of my time lately cursing them for the “innovative move.” The idea has the stink of Erudite to it, but the action of trying to make friends could have come from someone with Amity tendencies. 

I should stop thinking of people by Faction characteristics, but it's the way I grew up. I don't think I'll ever leave the Faction mentality behind. 

The Outsider flight is due to arrive at noon, but there are plenty of items that have to be addressed before we're ready to welcome their company. I have a punch list of things not to forget. Unfortunately for me, I'm one of the few Johanna trusts to get things done and a large sum of the items are marked with my name for personal attention. I'm not the only one who will be rushing around this morning seeing to the final details, but I do need to get my share of the work done.

I don't know where Johanna came up with half of the ideas for courtesies, but my City is not going to have anything to be ashamed of if I get my way.

There have been new people coming to our City since the borders opened, but this is going to be different. It's been ten years since Johanna managed to negotiate with the United States government to allow Chicago to become a normal metropolis. The history of the “experiment” meant to cure genetic damage by locking people away is still fresh in everyone's mind, and we have something to prove.

The list of protocol is insanely long, and it's not even for the man in charge. The President of the United States won't be coming personally. The national government doesn't trust us enough to send the Leader of the Pure World. This weekend's visit by the Vice President is an overture.

The first place I go is to the caterer to make sure that the late afternoon welcoming meal will be delivered to the Hub in time. The food is coming from a Dauntless-Amity company, which is earning a reputation for healthy but decadent offerings. Idris had been several years above my class, but she welcomes me through the door with a smile.

“Heya, Four,” she says. All of the former Dauntless still call me that.

I nod a greeting. “Are we on track for the welcoming dinner?”

“Looking good,” she says, waving a hand that's holding a wooden spoon. “Driane's having problems with Friendly Foods about the avocado, but she thinks we can source it elsewhere or make a substitution.”

I try to remember if the avocado has any significance. Jessamyn Wu had spent months researching dining customs throughout the Outsider nation in an attempt to convey the right message through our first shared meal.

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Nahhh,” she replies. “We'll find something else just as tasty. Aside from that little glitch, we're all set.”

“Delivery at one?”

“Right to the Hub,” she assures me, before winking. “Would you like a muffin?”

“I need to review the final menu first,” I warn her.

“There's nothing wrong with it,” Idris replies, but obediently hands over the list so I can compare it to my mental notes. Everything looks in order, and I thank her as she provides me a wheat muffin with walnuts in it. As I scrawl my mark on the order slip to approve the food delivery, I can't help but give things a second and third look to make sure there's been no alterations to my order. Once Dauntless, always paranoid.

“It's going to be okay, Four,” Idris tells me, before tossing a streak of her green-tinted hair over her shoulder. “If you get knocked down...”

“...just get up again,” I reply, acknowledging the old Dauntless adage. Aside for hoping for breakfast, I planned this stop because I knew Idris would help give me courage to face a challenging day. 

It's not only the visitors who pose the threat, but some of the residents of the City aren't entirely in favor of this historic visit. Some are afraid of letting more Outsiders in, and others are too traumatized by the upheaval of the last ten years to want to face yet more change. The Council has done our best to persuade the fearful that the only way forward is to open ourselves to the rest of the world, but many aren't buying it. 

It is the source of my concerns. There is much that can go wrong in a city full of war survivors, especially ones used to the never-ending sequel of betrayals that had destroyed the Faction system. 

Too many bright, determined people want us to fail.

I've never been good at accepting failure.

* * *

Overhead, I hear the sound of engines. I look up, wondering if the Outsiders are arriving early. It's only a police helicopter, flying low as it sweeps the area from above. I have problems differentiating the sound of different flying machines.

Flights no longer avoid flying around the City, instead brazenly crossing the skies. It has taken awhile for most residents to stop hunching whenever the sounds roar overhead, but I have stopped noticing. There has been so much change in the past decade that a sort of post-traumatic numbness has set in, and I accept much of what the outside world throws at me without blinking.

I only have four fears, and change is not one of them.

I still refuse to get aboard a plane, despite many invitations from Nita. Nita's becoming nationally known for her lobbying efforts for the GD, and she thinks I could help her by making the circuit of the Pure Cities. No matter how Nita wheedles, I have no interest in flying.

I jumped off the Hancock building. I have nothing left to prove.

The planes are not regular, yet, although there's plenty of talk of converting the rest of the Bureau of Genetic Welfare back into an operating airport. There is only one terminal open, but historically speaking the City once served as the nation's biggest hub of air travel. Some people want to bring that heritage back.

I pause on the threshold of the bakery and check my black-banded watch. Amar promised to meet me in order to confirm the security arrangements are in place.

Sure enough, I see him waiting across the street, talking on the hand-receiver the police have taken to using. He lifts a fist in acknowledgment, but makes no move in my direction. I walk across the street calmly, nodding to a fellow pedestrian dressed in Candor colors who waves a greeting. My face is one of the most famous in the City, and I'm always running across strangers who know me.

Such is the life of a political operative.

“--don't give a crap, Zeke, just get the barriers in place. The protest area is to the _left_ , and you are authorized to take anyone who gives you lip into custody. Got it?”

There's a garbled acceptance over the receiver, and then it cuts out. Amar huffs a breath, rolling his eyes. “Everything's under control,” he tells me before I can say anything.

Amar is one of the few people I trust. I should be finalizing the details with George at the police station, but thankfully Harrison is a reasonable man who appointed Amar as my liaison today. “So I hear.”

Amar's scowl is comprised of annoyance instead of concern, and that relaxes me. I know that there will be protesters today. That's why we are creating a designated protest area. 

“Some of the Isolationists are insisting that the left side of the arrival area has no cover and if it rains, they're going to get drenched,” he says. “Whine, whine, whine.”

“We said we would let them protest. We never agreed to make it comfortable for them.”

“I still don't think it's a good idea.”

“We are a thriving, open society,” I reply, giving him a mocking twist of my lips. “As part of a healthy democratic city, we allow people their freedom of speech.”

“Smart mouth rubbish,” he says derisively.

“It's their Constitutional rights,” I reply, “which as citizens of the United States of America, we must strive to uphold.”

His snort speaks volumes.

It has been uncomfortable to reconcile ourselves to the fact that we have always been part of a larger world. The Purity Wars may have led to the establishment of Chicago as an Experiment City, but Chicago never left the United States. It's been so hard to read about the history of our country, and see how much has been denied to us. Our ancestors may have volunteered to be subjects, but none of us did. Now that the experiment is over, we are supposed to step right back into being “Americans,” who for generations have been denying us the freedoms they claim to represent. The Outsiders say they did it for the good of the GD, but I can't see anything in history – theirs or ours – that shows oppression of any group ever led to something good.

They are lying to us, but those are lies we can't call them on. Yet. Maybe they even believe they are speaking the truth. Only Candor serum could tell.

Amar starts to talk about the list of other details the Police Department – not Dauntless, not anymore – has been taking care of. The security has been stepped up around all of the City's landmarks since a tour is planned for tomorrow. The Hub has been swept multiple times since the welcoming gala is scheduled there this afternoon. The airport, where the Outsider delegation is due to arrive in a few short hours, has been under restriction for the past three days.

I listen, and am pleased that I can find no holes in the plans. We can never think of everything, but we can at least minimize the risk. 

As he talks, we begin the walk to the nearest station, passing by a couple of the buildings that are undergoing reconstruction. While our City has been self-sufficient for decades, opening up to trade has brought many advantages. The new construction materials that have been flowing in are helping to decrease the ruins left by the Purity Wars and convert them it into more livable spaces. 

The trains stop nowadays. A part of me misses the never-ending circle, the thrill of boarding and disembarking while the engine rushed by, heedless of its human cargo. Now the trains stop at newly renovated locations, and it's safe to board and exit. Slowly, new cars are replacing the old, and they all have seats and doors that close. 

A month ago, the old line to O'Hare was restored. I have become one of the most regular riders.

Our train is just preparing to leave the station when we arrive. We step quickly into the last car before the doors shut. The car is only a third of the way full. The riders are still mainly former Dauntless, most of whom bitch and moan about how boring the commute is. People originating from other Factions still prefer the bus system as their preferred method of mass transportation. It will take more time before we heal enough to get over the old habits. 

The train ride is different, but not boring. For me, it is a chance to breathe. I have seen the old pictures of men carrying folded newspapers in their hands as they jammed into the train, and I like emulating them. Since I usually travel alone, I use the time to read through the mountains of reports that are given to City Councilors. 

I typically allow myself to spend some of my commute day dreaming. I never ride a train without thinking of her. Trains are so closely associated with her in my head that it's impossible not to. I may have forgotten the exact physical sensation of our kisses, but I will always remember the emotional taste of her lips with exquisite accuracy. 

It's one of a hundred memories, and one of a thousand reasons I keep fighting. The little details of her fade, but I know I will never forget her intensity. Some days, the days when I miss her the most, I allow myself the entire train ride to indulge in maudlin thought to remind myself that I'm still alive. 

She is not alive, but I have to believe that a part of her heart survives through me and all those she loved.

Today's ride is different and I can only spare her a passing thought, because Amar rides with me and we have work to do. I listen as he briefs me on the plan, occasionally pulling out his hand-held and checking in with the various police troopers. I am silent except when he asks me for an opinion, instead staring out the windows as we rush toward the airport.

A remaining line of devastation demarcates the end of the City and the beginning of Outside. New construction has yet to go up along the route. As we pass the boundary between our City and the Outside, I remind myself today is another step to heal the gaps that divide us.

* * *

The number five is permanently ingrained into the City's consciousness. Although the Factions are gone, we have five leaders comprising the City Council. The City Charter, which I helped to draft, incorporates elements from the various faction manifestos and lays out the regulations by which Chicago citizens have agreed to live. Unlike anywhere else in the country, we have no prohibitions on the GD serving as council members.

I was elected two years ago to serve a five-year term as a councilman. It's a prestigious title, but it's also a lot of work. The infrastructure that the Abnegation provided hasn't been completely restored, and the councilmen are really just glorified dogsbodies. We may vote to make decisions for the City's future, but we're also expected to roll up our sleeves and work together to get things done, even if we voted against an action but lost the ballot count.

No job is too menial for a councilman.

Johanna leads the Council with as much grace as she had ever led Amity. Her strength is in her ability to not only lead, but in showing us how to collaborate. People have recently started calling her the City Mayor. It started out as a joke on Christine and Leo's morning show, but I hear talk about making it formal. Johanna will be horrified if that comes to pass, especially since many of the former Erudite have been delving into our City's history and learning how colorful the City's politics have always been.

The plans for this Outsider visit may have come from somewhere else, but Johanna has spent the past several years working on making them come to fruition. As first her assistant, and then her colleague, I've been involved every step of the way. 

I need to check in with the airport staff to make sure the facility is prepared to receive the incoming plane. There's a couple of flights arriving a day, but most of those are strictly cargo. This passenger plane will be bringing something different.

The tarmac is old but usable, and Terminal Five is now functioning as our airport. The terminal itself has been reopened, but there have been few visitors coming through the gates. Most of the GD who wanted to make the trip trickled in via car, but a couple have been shipped in from other cities via cargo truck or, in one notable case, via barge. There is talk about implementing stricter guidelines or quotas on admission to the city, because the GD that have been courteously provided with one-way fares are either the most troublesome or badly damaged. 

In many cases, both.

I am not an advocate for screening citizens, although Johanna thinks the idea has merit since we cannot support people who cannot contribute. I think that if we start drawing lines within the GD, we would end up creating the same problems that started the experiment cities in the first place.

A part of me fears which side of the line I would fall on if I were screened, even though the Bureau had thought me Divergent until they had run the genetic tests. I act more healed than most.

As Amar and I enter the airport complex, we walk by the protesters who are outside. A group is gathering, mostly comprised of Isolationists that wear the Faction styles with stubborn insistence. Memory Serum can suggest, but it cannot control. The deployment of the Memory Serum had given the City a reset, but it couldn't keep people from reforming old opinions. 

I try not to sigh too loudly. This group is going to be escorted to the runway and into the designated protest area once they pass through security. Some of them are objecting loudly at being forced to endure a pat-down. It's hard for me not to go over to the group to sort the situation out. I don't recognize any of the screeners, but I have to let them do their jobs and concentrate on mine.

Amar bounces up to the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action. The old reflexes are still keen with him since he spends his day on patrol. He looks at me, tilting his head toward the group in silent question, and I shake my head. We need to delegate, and I cannot waste Amar's time with a minor mess. 

Security is tight, and even though Deborah and Myra both recognize us, they take retina scans before allowing entry. They require Amar to surrender his guns, since no weapons are allowed within the secured compound. Amar has been through this enough times that he doesn't quibble, instead choosing a random locker to safely stow his gear. 

I have no gun to surrender.

After Amar is disarmed, Myra lets us pass through a metal detector and into the compound. As soon as we enter, we hang a right to head to the inner security room that has been handling the plans for the transportation to the Hub after the delegation arrives. 

Robert Black has been organizing the transportation, checking the credentials of the drivers and planning the routes. He assures us that all is properly underway. There are new, large vehicles with open windows that were brought in by the Bureau in order to provided our guests with a chance to see the City as they pass through. 

The windows are covered with bullet proof glass.

We could bring the Outsiders into the Hub using the train, but the Council decided it would be better to have a slower journey where our guests can appreciate the damage that still remains. While the City is healing, there are still vast swaths of damage left by the Purity War. The bombed out areas stand as a testament that we're still not whole.

I look at the diagrams Robert presents to me, studying each of the three plans. To avoid having the route compromised, we left it until this minute to make the decision on which path we would take in. All of the routes have there strengths and weaknesses. I know the Isolationists have a strong Erudite presence that has the ability to predict all likely routes, not just the three we decided on. 

Today is about taking chances. I already know what plan I want.

“Two,” I say, because Two plus Four is Six, and that's my luckiest number. 

Amar smiles, but thankfully doesn't choose to point out that he knows what I am thinking. Instead, he gives me a jaunty salute, looking over at Robert. “I have to call George and finalize things. You good to go?”

He's asking if I will be okay.

I've been okay for a long time. Someday, I may even be good. 

“Headfirst,” I say, knowing he will understand.

He raises a fist to bump against mine. “Stay strong,” he tells me.

“Be ready to adapt should it go wrong,” I reply, and then prepare for the final leg of my morning journey.

* * *

I take the shuttle out to Terminal Five, which is quite a ways from the main compound. I would have preferred to drive myself, but I don't have a license to handle a vehicle in a secured area. Instead, I am ferried over to the terminal with three others. I recognize their faces as being Outsiders employed by the Bureau, and none of them bother to greet me.

I am uncomfortable around them. I am famous to the Bureau's workers for all the wrong reasons, and the idea that they know so much about me makes my skin crawl if I think on it.

I recognize my own hypocrisy. 

Terminal Five is separate from the rest of the compound, and it takes several minutes to pull in front of the entryway. I lift a hand in greeting because there, standing in the sunlight, is Johanna. 

Johanna Reyes wears white nowadays, with crystals sewn into the seams and along her collar line of every outfit she owns. Today her flowing dress modestly covers her from wrist to ankle. Every time she moves, the crystals catch the light and refract with a rainbow of colors. Subtle, she is not.

The Outsiders have offered to help Johanna as a sign of good will. They offer surgeons that can repair the damage done to her face, and remove her scar.

Johanna, wisely, will not let them fix her. Instead, she wears her hair tied back, exposing both sides of her face fearlessly. She is not afraid to show what she has been through.

Remnants of her Amity background linger in everything she does. When she sees me, she gives me a smile before walking over and pulling me into an embrace. There are few people I feel comfortable touching, but she is one of them. 

I have still not mastered kindness. Johanna has never acted without it, which is why I have followed her for so long.

“Thank you for all your hard work,” she says. “We just need to make it through the next few hours.”

“And the next, and the next,” I repeat. It's become something of an in joke between us for Johanna to counsel patience and for me to reply cynically. When I first started as her assistant, the hardest thing for us to deal with was her eternal belief that things would get better, and my inherent doubt that they could. I know how to wait, but learning how to hope is much harder.

Her chuckle is pleasant as I step back from her. I can't help but think how beautiful she is. “The plane is due in another hour,” she tells me.

“Seventy-three minutes, actually,” a male voice corrects from behind.

I force myself to turn slowly, even though my instincts scream that I should attack. I take a deep breath and force my expression into something neutral as I turn to confront the man who has taken my place as Johanna's assistant.

I look into Caleb's face, and try not to see her looking back at me.

Our relationship over the past couple of years has become a tense one. Once I was elected to the Council, someone had to step into my shoes as Johanna's assistant. I don't think I would have been content that anyone could do that job as well as I did, but I was very unhappy when Caleb had stepped forward to claim the spot.

The uneasy truce that we created between us following her death teetered on collapse when he volunteered to serve as a political assistant. He had been safely tucked away in the compound as a scientist, somewhere I didn't have to think about his continued existence. Now I am forcibly reminded every time I see Johanna, since he is never far from Johanna's side. 

I cannot hurt him because she died to save him, but on the bleak days when I miss her most, it hurts me to see him. 

She is dead, and he is not. 

A part of me wonders if she would have wanted me to forgive him for surviving. I believe she would have, but she would have also told me to never forget.

“Precise as always,” I note.

“We're scheduled down to the minute.” He pulls out the electronic pad that came from the Bureau. “The plane will touchdown at eleven forty-seven, and then after they see to arrival formalities, we will formally welcome Vice President Eddings and his entourage outside at noon precisely. We will then coordinate transportation to the Hub where we will hold a welcoming feast and ceremonial exchange of gifts. Then....” He pauses, and suddenly recognizes that he is talking to me. “You already have this memorized.”

“I wrote the schedule, Caleb.”

“It's going to be a very busy three days. I want to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

I open my mouth, but thankfully Johanna steps in before I can say anything unforgivable. She laughs lightly, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder. “Things never go entirely to plan. Something will go wrong,” she tells him, “but between us we can deal with whatever happens.”

“But the better our contingency planning, the better the probability of a positive result,” Caleb replies. His carriage is still straight, but Johanna has managed to ease some of his tension with her reassuring touch. 

“There's a time and place for everything. Right now, we should get down to the gate to be ready for the arrivals.”

He wants to keep talking and I watch as he struggles to choke back whatever whip-smart and insensitive thought is in his head, and instead taps the pad. “The Council is due to congregate there in fifteen minutes. It's best not to be late.”

Johanna squeezes his shoulder gently before extending her hand to me. I remember growing up watching how the Amity faction was constantly touching each other and thinking them strange. Now, I don't think twice before reaching out and taking her fingers in my own. 

Her skin is warm. Just like her.

* * *

The last couple of minutes of the wait are always the worst. I remember sitting in the Dauntless control room, spending hours watching the monitors for trouble spots. It hadn't been a glamorous job, but it had been the best place for me to hide my perceived Divergent nature. Some days, the shift would become unbearable and I would ache to get out and get away from being Dauntless. Those days always dragged as I awaited my relief.

As we walk, Caleb checks to confirm I've completed my tasks and makes notes on his pad. Caleb, for all his personality flaws, has the organizational skills of a master. He is a good fit for Johanna, since he catches onto the little details that she doesn't have time to address personally. In some ways, he is better assistant than I was, because he actually likes overseeing those little details. 

We meet in a small waiting room off the side of the gate. The room is furnished in browns and tans, but there are splashes of color provided by some floral arrangements.

Johanna drops my hand as she greets Marius, a former Candor who was elected to the Council the same year I was. Euripides, a former Erudite, and Sophie MacClelland, an old woman who was Factionless-former-Dauntless, round out our five-member council. 

There is no councilman from Abnegation. It is a void in our leadership that I do my best to remember.

Sophie gives me a grin, showing teeth that have seen better days. She has beautiful tattoo work running over her entire left cheek, an intricate design of fire and guns that proudly announce her Dauntless heritage. She had been factionless for over sixteen years by the time of my Choosing Ceremony, leaving Dauntless after an accident crippled her hand.

I respect her for managing to survive for so long outside of her born faction, but a part of me cannot truly like her... because I could have _been_ her, had I actually followed through on my plans to leave Dauntless.

“The world still in one piece?” Sophie asks me.

“I think there's enough glue to keep it together for the next couple of days,” I reply.

“If there's not, we'll find some tape until the Outsiders leave,” she assures me in a solemn voice. “And then we can get out of these damn clothes and get some real work done.”

I drop my eyes to look at the black dress she is wearing. It's the first time I have seen her in anything but black leather pants. The skirt comes down to her knees, where her combat boots pickup. Despite being as old as my mother, she looks fierce and nothing like any of the Outsider women I have met at the compound or seen pictures of. 

“I like your new look,” I tell her.

“It's hard to kick ass if you're worried about flashing people,” she retorts. 

Caleb, still close enough to overhear, looks pained. 

I can't resist jerking his chain. “Anything for the spirit of peace and cooperation.” A pause lets me be a bit dramatic. “Maybe we should serve Amity bread. It's the easiest way to make sure they're in a friendly mood.”

The look Caleb gives me is less than amused. “It's illegal to expose anyone to any to the Serums without consent or court order.”

“It was a joke.” Caleb has never had much of a sense of humor.

“It's too serious to joke about.”

“If we can't laugh at ourselves, we'll never get anywhere,” Sophie says, coming to my defense. “You're too Stiff.”

Caleb recognizes the insult for what it is, but doesn't have the rank to fight back. 

I shouldn't have poked at him for a reaction, especially less than an hour before the Outsiders were due to arrive. Infighting will only prove the naysayers right.

The worst part of the wait is the final minutes, because that's when nerves will kick in.

Johanna, ever alert to potential conflict, forestalls any other missteps by bringing Sophie into a conversation with Marius. I stand on the edges, listening as she gives last minute reminders about Outsider customs and how it is appropriate to give a Candor handshake rather than a Dauntless fist bump or Amity hug. She hurries us out so we're at the door to the gate, ready to descend when the plane arrives.

* * *

There is something miraculous about watching a plane fly, although I feel nauseous every time I see one. The idea of climbing to hundreds of thousands of feet in the air with nothing but a tin can as protection is the realization of one of my only fears.

Watching a plane land is even more scary, because I've seen photos of crashes. Matthew touts the safety of airplanes whenever Nita tries to convince me to try flying, but I've seen the pictures of a couple of disasters that convince me I'm right to say no. If a plane goes down, it goes down hard. 

The plane that is carrying the delegation from Washington Arlington comes into view from the northwest. I watch as it descends, my inner cynic thinking that this trip might be over very, very quickly if the plane crashes. We have contingency plans for what happens if there is an attack by the Isolationists or GD or GP or any other group that wants us to fail, but I don't know if the prewritten press releases contain language addressing a plane accident.

Thankfully, my inner cynic is proven wrong and the plane taxis to the gate without a problem.

“Here it comes,” I hear Marius say. 

“Shhhh,” Johanna says, before pushing the door open and leading us out onto the tarmac.

Once, the plane might have connected directly to the gate and allowed the delegation to pass through without going outside, but that part of the terminal hasn't been rebuilt yet. We wait for the airport's ground crew to wheel a set of movable stairs into place at its doorway.

The first people off the plane are men wearing thick black jackets and carrying weapons in their hands. There's twelve of them, and they come onto the ground one at a time, fanning out so they stand back-to-back as a protection detail.

They carry guns heavier than those ever manufactured in the City. I feel a brief, Dauntless surge of admiration for a good weapon. Guns are power in distilled form, simple and deadly and inarguable. I miss that simplicity sometimes. The waters of the political power swamp are far more treacherous and uncontrollable than the pure essence of holding a deadly metal weapon in my hand.

But guns also hurt people, and I've done enough of that for a lifetime.

We had known the bodyguards would be there, since it had been a nonnegotiable term of the visit, but I can't help but think how hostile they are. From what I glean from my conversations with Nita, the United States government isn't sure what to do about Chicago now that the experiment has been closed down. The Outsiders debate if GD can be trusted to govern themselves, or if a GP “overseer” needs to be appointed.

I think they are scared of our possible success.

Our _inevitable_ success. I may have lost battles, but I have never lost a war. I don't think any of us are willing to believe we are inferior because of our genetic status.

Johanna advances to the platform fearlessly, with only the Council as bodyguards. We are risking a lot to put our entire leadership into this position, but we want to make it clear that we are peaceful. Some of the bodyguards watch us suspiciously, while others scan the rest of the area with ceaseless eye sweeping.

One of the bodyguards whispers something into his hand, and then a line of men and women in Outsider business wear start coming down the steps.

The leader of the group is a tall man, taller than me by a good several inches. He has a smile that cuts out of his dark face like a blade, a sharp, stinging white that is unnatural to those who grew up in the confines of an Experiment City. Some of the items that our citizens have expressed an interest in importing are outsider personal care products, but that trade is low on the list of the Council's priorities.

Vice President Eddings's face is almost too perfect, smooth with care and flawlessly symmetrical. There is no character in his face, no lines worn by time or stress or accident of fate. I know it is common for outsiders to “go under the knife” to fix any flaws, but I still find it creepy. He looks too smooth to be entirely human.

I hide my impressions away, since some of the bodyguards and delegation are keeping their eyes on me. Instead, I stand a pace behind Johanna, willing to follow her lead.

“It's a pleasure to see you again, Vice President Eddings,” Johanna says. Unlike me, she has taken the planes and traveled outside the City multiple times as she negotiated the new terms of our existence with the federal government. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Councilwoman Reyes,” he tells her. His voice is smooth, with a twang that sounds strange to my ears. His gaze locks on Johanna's face, and for a moment he is staring rudely before he remembers himself.

I forget, sometimes, that Johanna's blind eye disconcerts people. She sees more clearly with her one eye than most people can with two.

“On behalf of the City Council, and the residents of our city, I would like to welcome you to Chicago,” she says, and she holds out her hand for a handshake. Vice President Eddings takes it without hesitation, wearing a smile I do not trust.

Johanna introduces the rest of the council, announcing me as “Tobias Eaton.” Vice President Eddings looks at my face, and makes some congenial remark about having heard good things about my talents. I smile and murmur a thanks, knowing he's not going to be interested in what I have to say. He has already written me off. I am too young to be taken seriously, and he doubtlessly knows I am GD since my test results are no secret.

That is fine with me. It is better to be underestimated.

When I take his hand, I can't help but note how soft it is. It's the hand of a man who's never held a weapon or done real, hard work a day in his life.

I wait patiently as the rest of the Washington Arlington delegation is introduced. The only one who stands out is Jason Vonnegut, who is proclaimed as the GD representative of the government. I meet his blue eyes, and wonder what his story is. The tight squeeze of his handshake promises we will talk later.

The Outsiders ignore the protesters who are standing off to the left, yelling and waving signs telling them to _go away_ and _stop the oppression!_ The Vice President appears used to seeing people exercising their First Amendment rights, since he's not batting an eye, even though a quarter of his security force are monitoring the protesters.

I catch a glimpse of Zeke in the crowd, separating an Isolationist from a GD rights activist. I trust the security team has caught the weapons through the screenings, but lack of weapons won't stop a fistfight from breaking out. Hopefully the lectures the City Council has hosted over the past couple of months about permissible versus impermissible forms of protest will have sunk in. 

Vice President Eddings and Johanna are chatting about the tour of the city we have planned for tomorrow when the vehicles pull in to take us to the Hub for the welcoming gathering. There are a line of ten trucks, and we wait a moment while the Vice President's bodyguards inspect the vehicles. It will be a long time before they will trust us.

Johanna and the Vice President are both shuffled into the seventh vehicle in line, accompanied by two of his bodyguards. The three other officials in the retinue are paired with the other Council members and placed into other cars with security.

Somehow, I end up alone in the fourth car with Caleb. We stare at each other for a long moment as the procession begins its way to the Hub.

“Did Johanna want you to tell me something?” I ask. I know the arrangements in the vehicles were randomized to further protect the Vice President from potential threat, but I had thought I would be hosting one of the Outsiders.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Caleb says, his fingers white against the electronic pad as he checks something else off. “We don't really speak much, and it seemed like a good chance.”

I want to tell him I don't have time to deal with the emotional baggage right now, not in the middle of the first diplomatic visit to the City in living memory. But we're in the car and it will take over an hour to take the scenic route to the Hub. 

“We don't have much in common.” Hopefully that will shut him up without creating a formal rift. I cannot afford to alienate Johanna's assistant, even if that assistant is the person responsible for the death the most important person in my life.

His green eyes flash, and I can see that he wants to point out just who we will always have in common. Instead, he pushes the button that raises the privacy partition between ourselves and the driver. “I never told you why I got into politics.”

I wait for him to continue. I don't think this is a conversation I want to have.

“I've been thinking about my sister a lot lately. I still don't understand why she...” he cuts off, shutting his eyes. He blinks them open, refocused, a second later. “I came across something while I was researching biological history. Have you heard of Darwinian theory?”

I shake my head. So many new ideas have come into the City since the experiment ended that no one person could keep up with them. 

“He was a scientist hundreds of years ago who postulated that those who were fit, survived,” Caleb says. “In the end, the ones best suited to survival would be the ones to thrive.”

“The Divergent,” I say, thinking of healed genetic markers. I cannot forget the agony of failing the test for genetic purity. I cannot forget the realization of how very broken I was, right down to my DNA. I have been fighting ever since my flaws were confirmed.

“No. Those who learn to cope with what they are,” Caleb says. “My sister wasn't special because of her genetics. She was special because she was _Tris._ ”

I shut my eyes, suddenly remembering her clear eyes and the way her blonde hair had felt between my fingers. 

Her Divergence had been only a part of her. 

She had been special because she was the first person who dared to love me without fear.

She had been special because she stood up for what she wanted, and for those she loved.

“I think.... I think she would still believe there's nothing wrong with being GD,” Caleb says. “Our genetic status is not the sole factor that makes us who we are. We have choices. Our choices are what makes us special, not some random fluke of genetics.”

It surprises me to agree with Caleb about anything. Being told we're damaged doesn't mean we can't be fixed. Being GD doesn't mean we _need_ to be fixed.

We have been our own oppressors for too long. The GP are not as smart as the Erudite. They are not as Kind as Amity, and they know more fears than the Dauntless. They lack the clarity of the Candor, and the selflessness of the Abnegation. The GP are not _better_. They're just _different._

“And that's why you're getting involved in politics?”

“It's my choice,” Caleb says. “I am choosing to do the right thing.”

In the distance, I can see the Hub rising out of the City. For as long as I can remember, the Hub has been there, its towering presence symbolizing the ability of our people to survive. 

Chicago is the Fourth City, built of the remnants of three that came before.

As we travel the roads, which alternate between fresh construction and old damage, I study Caleb for a long moment before offering my hand. Abnegation families rarely touched, so he hesitates before taking it. I give it a quick squeeze, remembering that for now, I can be Amity. 

Caleb's hand, unlike the Vice President's, has writing calluses along the fingers. I would much rather trust him than the Outsiders but I need to work on opening myself to both. I may not like Caleb, and the Outsiders may have ulterior motives, but I can learn to accept them both.

Chicago is the City of survivors. Destruction is easy, but surviving to face the next day is where true Dauntless courage comes in.

Chicago is _my_ City, and I won't let anyone take it away from me. I will be brave, and selfless, and smart, and kind, and honest. I was not born Divergent, but I can become everything I need in order to protect the place and the people I love.


End file.
